


Satisfactory

by Agency



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4696910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agency/pseuds/Agency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoelon and Illya fail to fully satisfy Gaby, just this once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Purely porn without plot, you've been warned. This is technically unfinished, but I tried to tie it up together at the end because I didn't have the energy to continue it, so sorry. Might amend later.

Time was a rare commodity for the U.N.C.L.E. Team. That wasn't to say it was in short supply, merely that it was difficult to actually have in the right amounts, at the right juncture, for the right reasons. It was all about timing, every little corner of their lives seemed to hinge on how much time they had or did not have and where they were when they were able to acquire the right kind.

For spies, this was not unusual, and yet- somehow- Gaby Teller found it maddening.

“We don't have _time_ , Gaby,” came the baritone voice of the Russian agent to her left, impatient and tired but trying so very hard to tiptoe around the meaning behind his very true statement. Her fingers slid through his palm and she wondered what he thought of the calluses deep in the creases there, if he wished they were smoother or if the roughness delighted him.

“ _You_ don't have time.” She corrected, and her lips curved into a frown when the coolness of his fingertips slid out of hers instead of between the cracks like she wanted.

“Actually,” Napoleon was practically brimming with cheer, in the way Napoleon always was, in the carefree way that almost made Gaby angry at him. It was always a cadence she grew particularly annoyed with. She wished it were different, but Solo had a lot of habits that drove her up the wall, and this kind tone was one of them- even when he wasn't in such a kind mood, it was there. “I don't have time, either. We're supposed to be in a coffee shop about six blocks from here within the hour, and you know I'm not a quick shot. Peril, on the other hand, has no excu-”

“Just go,” Gaby sighed, rolling her eyes at the impending argument, knowing that it would be one in which Napoleon poked and prodded at a lion with a thorn in its paw and got exactly what was coming to him. It rarely ended any other way these days. Time rarely permitted other outcomes.

“ We will be back.” Illya spoke as though it were a hum instead of a sentence. “It should not take long, if all parties  _cooperate._ ” His eyes were pinned on Solo like it was an accusation, not a dig, and Gaby only half-listened to the mutterings and rhythmic exchange that continued afterward.

She pulled back the sheets of the bed and poured herself onto the floor feet first, looking vaguely around the next five steps she'd take to see if there were any articles of clothing she could grab and use. There was nothing. A little shrug navigated her shoulders as she walked toward the master bathroom of the hotel, but as soon as she stepped onto the tile of the aforementioned room, a shiver ran through her. Cold floors were the worst.

She glanced over her shoulder once more, to see Illya and Solo maintaining their perpetual state of boyish banter, and then shut the door maybe too loudly. After that noise came none, and she presumed they'd finish their argument in silent movements and gestures to avoid 'upsetting her'. Little did they know, she hardly cared. In fact, she found their constant and unchanging bickering highly amusing usually; the moments she did not care for it were the ones in which it hindered their ability to work well together. That was still rare. Illya was so dedicated, and Solo so skilled, that she didn't worry about it all too much.

She started a shower with a sigh and pulled at the edges of her hair, turning her face side to side in the grand oval mirror. What was it about the day that exhausted her so much? Perhaps it was simply that she had not been given a true reprieve, a twenty-four-hour period with rest, in such a very long time. The last year and a half it had taken to establish this strange tangle of a relationship was all but a blur. Did time ever let her appreciate it any other way?

Gaby felt the tension melt away in the knots of her shoulders and neck when the hot water hit her. The men in her life were lovely and they did not mean to stiff her, deprive her of as much satisfaction as she wanted, but she knew that their stamina and her own...were not quite up on the same level. Even Napoleon, for all his boasting, was still purely a man. He was capable of staying  _up_ for much longer than Illya, but he only had the same one shot that the Russian spy had. That all men had.

They were so attentive, so caring and so kind usually, and she did not hold it against them that they had a job to do today while she did not. It was extremely rare that Illya and Solo could not sate her entirely. Long after they had come undone, they would practically wrestle for the opportunity to help her continue into the third, sometimes fourth in a series of pleasurable highs. She considered herself lucky to have found a man in this age so concerned with a woman's orgasm, nevermind  _two_ of them. That was pure fucking luck.

Still, she found her mind contemptibly wandering to the almost weary way Illya had sighed like he had been exhausted by a child at the thought of having to continue providing Gaby with the necessary stimulation, the way Solo had cheerfully hopped out of bed upon remembering the mission's steps tonight. She wondered if she was too much for them. Sometimes she wondered too much, grew sad, and then became happy again with the help of a glass bottle she often found somewhere near Solo's belongings.

This was not what was going to happen.

Decisively, she washed her hair, her body, and took her time cleaning every crevice of every part of her body. It was a thorough and deep clean, the kind she really ought to do more often- not to say her hygiene wasn't satisfactory already, but more that she rarely spent so much time focusing on herself. That was what today was for: herself.

When tasks were complete, Gaby let her mind wander. She thought of the curve of Illya's back and the dips in Solo's shoulders. She thought of the lingering looks Illya gave her through his lashes while his hands held her hips and his mouth remembered her intimately. She thought of the way Napoleon looked when he saw the opportunity to kiss her and kiss her  _deeply._ She would always believe that though Illya had been magnetized to her mouth before any other part of her body at the beginning of all of this, it was Napoleon who was more intimately tied to her by her mouth.

Gaby had never really been a silent lover, but alone with hot running water and her thoughts to accompany her, she only became a little louder. There were echoes in the tiled room that tried to shame her, but after the first powerful orgasm overtook her, nothing had ever been so ineffectual. Her head bowed forward and the water beat down over her hair, making it fall in streams like a living waterfall around her face. It dripped into her eyes but they were shut, it slid down the bank of her nose and dripped to her mouth, but it was open and she was thirsty anyway. Her fingers could not seem to work fast enough, and it was a measure of how used to others' touches she'd become.

There was something cold on her skin, something breaking up the steam and getting her distracted, but only mildly, only enough to slow her movements and lift her head. She tossed away some of the wet hair that clung to her cheek, and peered through the glass of the shower and into the room, which should have been too cloudy with heat and moisture to really see...but it wasn't.

It wasn't, because the door was open, and in the way stood Napoleon Solo, both hands in his pockets. Behind him was the hulking form of his partner, Illya  Kuryakin , who did not seem to know what to do with either of his hands. They were both entirely dressed in the daytime outfits they had picked for the mission, and Gaby was unaware of how much time had passed since she'd come in, but she knew it could not have been anywhere close to a full hour yet. It was certainly not enough time for them to have finished the mission step already.

“Oh, don't mind me, Miss Teller.” Solo spoke with bravado he usually reserved for marks and targets, but Gaby secretly liked it. When he said her name like it was a mission statement, it made her feel a little more important to him. “Please, do go on.” He loosened his tie, and Gaby did not go on.

“Waverly isn't going to be happy.” She chided, but she knew she was a little breathless. Her hand was still between her thighs and she wasn't going to stop him from unbuttoning his vest and neatly folding it to rest on the vanity chair with his jacket.

“ Oh, no, he's not.” Napoleon shrugged and Gaby saw Illya shift his weight from foot-to-foot in an impatient sort of way behind him. “But it won't be  _our_ fault, so as far as I see it, we're in the clear.”

Gaby knew better than to ask for further explanation. Napoleon was good at letting her know what she needed to know. He'd find a time to tell her, and she had a feeling it would be within the next few agonizing minutes. He took too long to strip entirely, and he stepped into the shower with her, his arms moving around her middle and sliding down her elbows.

Illya had not moved. Gaby wanted to ask why, when the man against her back began to guide her fingers in the ways  _he_ tended to her, making her mimic his own actions. He did not omit the teasing circles his fingertips pressed around her clitoris, and Gaby likewise did not omit the rough noise that escaped her throat to tell him she did not appreciate being teased.

Through half-lidded eyes she saw again that Illya was simply standing in the doorway. He was almost stoic, but too restless to be a stone giant. She parted her lips to ask why when Napoleon pressed his own to her ear and kissed a warm, slick trail to her neck with the intention of leaving a blue-purple patch that she knew would fade away within a few hours. Solo was careful never to leave a trace he couldn't cover quickly.

She couldn't really speak when she came again, hard and around two of Napoleon's fingers that had slid within her at some point. Her body bent a little bit and she gripped at the strong forearms she could find to hold onto. With the heavy breathing of a post-orgasm high, Gaby turned her head and met Solo's lips for a deep, aching kiss, something that burned and stung in the best way a kiss could. When it was over, Solo was cupping her breasts and rolling his thumbs over her nipples as he muttered in her ear and watched Kuryakin as hard as she did.

“Shower's too small. It's like watching a bull through the gate. Can't get to you, but he really wants to charge, doesn't he?” Solo was grinning and it was audible in his words. Gaby struggled, but ultimately lost the fight against letting out a laugh. She reached out to shut off the shower, and turned to press a finger against Napoleon's lips.

“ Play  _nice_ .”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'm not old enough for that. You're the old one.”

“Ah, but wouldn't you rather have experience over youth? Peril over there-”

“ _I can hear you, you know.”_ Illya spoke in Russian, thick and too warm for Gaby to fully comprehend. Napoleon let his arms out from around her, and she felt his eyes on her as she stepped from the shower. The very instant her feet touched the soft carpet of the rug designed to catch dripping water, Illya somehow managed to be there, wrapping her in a dry towel like she were the most important Christmas present of them all.

The tenderness of that moment was unmatched, and wholly unique, because after that there was only a whirlwind of movement. It seemed that having to watch the American spy take full and uninterrupted control of Gaby's showerbound orgasm was enough to trigger Illya's exciting penchant for tossing care and softness into the wind. It had taken a very long time, but she had managed recently to prove to the Russian that, no, holding her a little tighter and pushing a little harder was not going to  _break_ her.

Her body was hoisted up into his arms almost immediately, calves still wet and body chilled by the droplets of water still clinging to her arms and shoulders, hanging off of the thick strands of dark hair on her head. Illya could not even seem to walk the twenty feet it would take to get to a bed. As she was wrapped, towel and all, he pushed her back against the wall and kissed her, an arm under her rear and a hand against the side of her face. When her hands rest on the sides of his neck, digging underneath a cotton-poly blend of fabric to find the real skin beneath, she knew that she was silly to wonder if Illya wished her hands were smoother. The sound of contentment he made was too real for that.

“The wallpaper's going to peel if you don't dry her off.” Napoleon scoffed to her left, and the dizzying kiss ended. Illya's thick voice mumbled against Gaby's bare neck as he spoke.

“You are more concerned about wallpaper than woman.”

“I think the woman appreciates the wallpaper. Gaby, don't you appreciate the wallpaper?”

“Very much so.”

Illya moved her to the bed as Solo seemed to request- perhaps because he knew, in a position such as the one they had been in a moment ago, he would not have very much access to either one of them. Gaby knew it too. She thought Illya did it on purpose, because after such a teasing display for poor Illya, Napoleon did not deserve her.

Illya removed his pants first. He always did. He was bare below the waist very quickly these days, and some nights he didn't even get his shirt off at all, for how hurried they were. Solo was never partially clothed, it was always fully dressed or not at all, and Gaby wondered if his clothing was given more reverence than she was.

The giant climbed back onto the bed and kissed her again, this time with his elbows on the mattress and his fingers holding her face. His whole palms could practically smother her if he had moved them any closer. Gaby felt his desire, felt his love, felt his warmth, and she loved every single second of it. She felt sorry, too, because she was; he had to watch while Solo touched her.

Vaguely, Gaby feels her head lifted slightly and then set back down on something soft and warm. Napoleon's thigh was her new pillow, and she realized he was stroking her hair only when Illya stopped kissing her lips to move down to her neck. His fingers paused while opening up her towel, and for a fraction of a moment, even their synchronized breathing came to a hitch. It wasn't until Illya practically  _attacked_ her neck that she remembered Napoleon's mark in just that same place.

On any other occasion the American spy would say something snarky, or needle Illya for his protective and jealous nature; but for some reason, he was remaining quiet. Gaby made eye-contact with him, and he just grinned his Cheshire grin, and said nothing with his lips and everything with his eyebrows. Something deliberate was going on and she had no idea what.

Soon she was too busy to think much of it. She had to remove Illya's shirt, and run her hands over the smooth bends of his muscles. She felt  _his_ hands skirting the edges of her figure, curving where she curved, straightening out wherever limbs would. When he came to her hips, he stopped again, and Gaby found Solo leaning over her head to fiddle with something before resting back down and continuing to pet her hair.

Huh.

Before she could lift her head, Illya was pressing two fingers into her; so different from anyone else's. Solo had a precision to his fingers, and her own were boring and familiar, and then there was Illya's. They were a little thicker, stronger, more threateningly powerful in a way that actually made Gaby feel  _safer_ than anything else. She couldn't help the arch of her back when he twisted them just so, let out an airy noise from between her teeth.

“Come on, Peril. This isn't new ground.”

What did he mean by that? Illya seemed suddenly a little distracted, and when Gaby finally looked over his expression, she saw his face flushed and the leftovers of a smile that had been there before Napoleon spoke. She reached up with one hand to tap Napoleon's face with her palm, a faux slap, and he just chuckled.

“ Watch me work, Cowboy.” Illya mumbled out, and then he looked directly to Gaby again, as if inspecting her features for a sign of...something. What was he looking for? God, she'd never felt so  _lost_ during this...

Then Illya leaned down very, very close, pressing their foreheads together and brushing his nose against Gaby's in too affectionate of a manner for how impossibly hard she felt him against her thigh. He mumbled in Russian and then he was pushing in, and Gaby almost stopped him, for she did not remember putting a condom, or any kind of lubricant, on his person at all---

Oh, but, there was...both. That was probably what Solo had been doing when he leaned over. The spy in question gave her cheek a little pat as she made some kind of strangled sound at the penetration, and fondled her breasts with a kind of curiosity and interest that even he couldn't fake.

Usually, even now, Illya was very careful and very gentle to begin. Gaby truly could not remember a time when he had not needed an actual, verbal encouragement to increase his pace or his force. This would be the very first time, as, once Illya was sure they had all adjusted to the position, pressure, and movement of the moment...he was  _gone_ .

Like a crack of lightning, Illya was moving quickly. His thrusts were desperate, his force was great, and it actually made the woman cry out a little; all in pleasure, but still, those sounds tended to be reserved for at least a few minutes into this. She was caught entirely off-guard by how fast Illya had gone from zero to sixty. More words in Russian close to her lips and then Illya's hands sliding down until they found her wrists on his back.

He pulled them off, and before Gaby knew it, he had them pressed tightly into the mattress, keeping her even more still than Solo had been keeping her. His hold on her head and her breasts had kept her from jerking up the bed, but that hadn't been entirely enough. Now her whole torso could remain in place and she was a squirming mess of emotion and tingling nerve-endings.

“ Я желаю тебя  means ' I desire you', ” Solo hummed, bending down to mutter in Gaby's ear, and she was so dazed she hardly heard him at all. “It's very poetic. I don't know why he didn't just say-”

“ Cowboy, _”_ Illya nearly spat out, immediately lifting his head to glare down at the back of Napoleon's as he did not miss a beat with his hips. He was out of breath, but apparently, still reserved some to speak to his colleague. “Do something else with your mouth.”

Solo did not need to be told twice. He sat up straight again, and kissed Illya with some remarkable intensity. Gaby simply watched in awe, experienced everything from the waist down floundering in pleasure while witnessing a gloriously pretty sight before her. It was almost too good to be true, and sometimes, in these fragile moments where all three of them were simultaneously connected, she wondered if it was all a dream.

She saw Solo wince, and when he pulled away his lip was actually  _bleeding_ a bit, which she supposed wasn't new- Illya drew a lot of Napoleon's blood, on many different types of occasions- but for some reason this particular one caught her.

“ Gaby, he  _bit me._ ”

“Deserved it...” She panted out, with a ghost of a grin on her face, and Illya smiled so satisfactorily that she almost got distracted. However, Napoleon seemed to have picked up on how Illya's pace was getting to her, and he got up to lay down beside them, reaching between their bodies and using a finger to rub slow and steady circles around her clitoris. Just as she was about to curse him, he picked up the pace, and with a cry, she came. Illya let go of her wrists as soon as she did, but did not stop moving, not even once, as she wrapped her arms around his neck and bucked into him with a desperation she could never put words to describing.

When she came down from the high, Illya was, too. She realized for half a horrified moment that she had been so wrapped up in pleasure, that she did not  _even notice_ him orgasm. It was confirmed that it had happened when she watched him get up, tie off the condom, and toss it near the trash. She only hoped it landed, she would  _not_ be picking it up later.

“Well.” Napoleon clapped a bit. “Good job, I-”

“Keep talking,” she muttered, “And you won't get a damn thing.”

Napleon shut his mouth and smiled instead. Just as Gaby was about to sit on his lap, her knee hovering over the mattress to complete the motion, a sharp ringing sounded throughout the room. They were all silent and still for a moment as they waited to see if, perhaps, they had simultaneously hallucinated- but alas, they had not. The phone rang again. Illya sighed and Gaby rolled away, picking up the phone and speaking to Waverly, who...sounded amused, but also infuriated, somehow.

“...Yes, Mr. Waverly. ...No, I- oh. ...They only just got back a few minutes ago, I really didn't have much time to- … I understand. ...I will. Yes.”

The boys were looking at her, almost nervously, as she turned around to face them. She put a hand on a hip, and a disapproving look on her face.

“ Alright. So, who put the target  _in the hospital_ for this?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby and Illya fail to fully satisfy Solo, just this once.

“You got yourselves into it. You can get yourselves out.”

“Gaby, darling, you're being terribly unreasonable, we _\- ow!_ "

Crackling, static, and obvious wrestling fills the car she sits in, coming out of the heavy walkie-talkie in her hand. She rolls her eyes and tilts her head back, letting it thud against the leather headrest. The car engine was cut for now, so she's spared the rumble of a vehicle to mingle with all of the noise coming from her communication device.

“Street is still clear, yes?”

“Yes, Illya. The street is still clear. I'm fine.”

Tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, Gaby Teller decides that she was just going to have to suffer the consequences of her desire. If she hadn't been so damn _greedy_ with her affairs, maybe she would be in a pair of comfortable pajamas watching that charming little _I Love Lucy_ show. Despite the fact that color television was commercially available in America these days, and every five-star hotel seemed to have one- mostly because it _looked_ nice to have, not necessarily because it was anything supremely exciting- Gaby still enjoyed her American black-and-whites.

“Gaby, it's me again- do you see the little black bag in the passenger's seat?”

Pausing, she looks over and raises a brow. There's a black, square leather bag, with a supremely fancy 'S' in raised embellishment on one side. She taps the zipper pull and it makes a tinkling sound as her eyes remain on it and she holds down the walkie button.

“Yes.”

“Of course. If The Red _Peril_ here hadn't nearly thrown me out of the car, perhaps I'd have it with me. Alright. Thanks.”

“What is it?”

Of course, she already knows. Opening up the bag while Solo decided to blame his shortcomings on Kuryakin, Gaby discovers a heavy black box, a contraption that looks like a stethoscope, and a pair of leather gloves folded into the smallest square imaginable. She's unable to get them back to the correct size to properly fit in the bag, and decides to put them both underneath the bag as if they'll be overlooked later.

“Oh, you know. Trinkets. Sentimentals. Things I like to keep close while I work.”

Static surrounds the airwaves again and Gaby can't help but let out a laugh they'll never hear.

“He talks too much. We are inside.”

Silence, and just as she's about to actually sit up straighter and get prepared for her part of the mission, there's more thick Russian-English coming out of the device in her hand.

“I have secured the perimeter. Solo will bring him to the- mpphh _mmh!_ ”

“Good _boys_ , so _focused_.”

She hopes they can _taste_ the eye-roll. There is a suspiciously long bout of silence after that. It stretches so long that Gaby actually feels concern swell in her chest, feels her heart rate quicken and everything tighten up. What if she's just sitting here while Napoleon and Illya are being ambushed? What if there are bullets flying, right _now_ , what if...

“We have problem, Gaby.”

“What is it? What's wrong? Is he okay?”

“Oh, he is … alive.”

She does not know how to respond. Her panic is ebbing away, but she almost grasps at it, as if to keep it close to her. She's not sure what to feel, and panic is easier than most things, but especially confusion.

“The Cowboy is distracted.”

A beat of silence that lets Gaby exhale and shut her eyes tightly is all she gets before Illya continues.

“And useless. We left-”

“-Absolutely no trace that we'd ever been here, isn't that right, _Illya_?”

As if on cue, police sirens scream. The walkie-talkie button is almost distractedly being pressed down now, and it's a miracle she can get any messages across the waves in the tiny breaks that a thumb is not resting on one of the large round pads.

“What's going _on_ over there?! Get out here!”

“That's the idea, _dear!_ ”

“Cowboy _can you not run any faster!?_ ”

“No, actually, ahha, I _can't!_ ”

“Shouldn't you be _used_ to this?”

“Very funny, Peril! _NO-!_ ”

There is silence again, at least from the radio, and Gaby's fingers are shaking a little, but her knee is bouncing a lot, and she's got her engine on, foot over the gas. Any moment she'll see them burst from the back doors of the hospital and everything will be fine once they're in the car. Once they're in the car, she can take care of them, she can keep them close and make sure these idiots she loves so dearly remain in one piece...mostly.

“You are too slow, I am not dying here! _Not like this, Cowboy!_ ”

All Gaby can hear after that is squeaking shoes on sterile tile, incoherent shouting, and heavy static that indicates rushes of air past the transmit speaker. Tossing the damn thing in the back seat, she turns the headlights on, and to her delight, the pair come bolting out of the door just as she hoped they would.

Well, one of them bolts. The other is...along for the ride, quite literally.

Illya has Solo over one shoulder, and practically tosses the American agent in the back seat like a ragdoll. He jumps into the passenger's side, and Gaby does not wait for seatbelt safety classes before she takes off down the street as fast as she can.

“What the hell happened in there?!” She shouts, and just as she does, a police car siren appears in her rear-view mirror. It vanishes as her tires screech and she makes a very sharp right turn, sending Solo crashing into one of the doors, hissing in pain.

“Cowboy here forgot his _tools_ , and could not open the door fast enough.” Illya practically growls as he holds onto the side of the door and Gaby hopes to god she doesn't have to replace one more fucking car door this month.

“I could, you wouldn't _let me!_ ” Solo's voice is pained, but more breathless than it has a right to be, seeing as he did almost no running at all.

“What's the _matter_ with you two!?”

“Oh, do not blame me, I am _fine_ , Gaby-”

“Of course you are, of course _you_ are!” Is he screeching? Napoleon sounds screechy. That is not normal. She wonders for a half second if he's hurt, because she's heard that voice before, that strange octave...

The half second has passed, and she lets out a hysterical _laugh_.

“Oh my GOD!”

A sharp right again. The sirens are long gone. The flashing is, too, but she's not going to risk it by slowing down just yet. She doesn't say anything else, and of course that is why Illya and Solo do not say anything else either. They let her drive and only when she is parked on the curb a block away from the hotel does she unbuckle, turn her head over her seat, and look at Napoleon.

He is curled in the corner of the car, straightening his tie, with his suit coat neatly over his lap, like he was simply enjoying a summertime drive. Gaby shakes her head, disbelieving, and the news is delivered to the car at large:

“I can't believe you're _still hard_.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya, Napoleon, and Gaby satisfied; together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S/O to waffle and strudel/toora, who were literally the only reason this fic got a chapter 2 and 3.

There's a unique sound of banging wood on plaster, and Gaby can't help but smile when she hears it. It's unusually pleasant now. It signals the beginning of a really, really _lovely_ end. Her fingers are busy pulling and pressing at her ears, removing dangling circular earrings and removing a sleek tennis bracelet, casual in the way she moves through the rooms of the suite and calmly peels away the remains of a cover she was never really comfortable in anyway.

“ _You're hopeless-”_  
  
“I didn't get to **finish** , how can you expect-”

“No Russian, Solo.” She clips in sharply, turning only part of her body toward the bedroom they're stumbling into. She's elected to set all the fancy bits and pieces of her outfit out here, in the 'front room', since they'll be safer here than in a room with two tornadoes working out the worst of their storm.

When she toes off her shoes and flexes the arches in her feet, she finally feels a little bit more at home. The sound of a desperate moan from off to the right of her even gives the place a lived-in feel that she didn't think she could find in a place that had ornate gold frames for scenery paintings. It's pretty lovely, just like the sight she sees- better than any wall hanging- when she finally elects to follow Illya and Napoleon.

She leans against the door frame for an instant as she watches. Her head tilts to the right and rests on the solid wood when Solo's tongue darts out to stop blood from running off his lower lip and getting onto his chin. She thinks that Illya's hands are making clay of Solo's hips, holding too tightly and dragging too firmly. She expects purple-blue patterns to be visible within the hour mark (if not sooner) just where his fingers squeeze.

Illya has always disliked how many layers Napoleon keeps on his body on a daily basis, and Gaby knows this. It's not exactly a secret, when his eyes are so expressive, and her attention is frequently completely captured by them. It's harder to undress someone with your eyes when they've got on four layers; then again, slacks tailored so well to Napoleon's ass would look funny with anything but a suit. The darts of his jacket accented his waist, and though she'd never admit to having looked for so long, it was one of the things Gaby found the most attractive about all of his ensembles. It was the reason for her silence when he took too long getting ready. It was worth waiting, to see the gift wrapping on a present as pretty as Napoleon.

Right now, Illya must have been experiencing a true American Christmas, the way he was yanking off Solo's belt. It made a loud snapping sound, as he'd done it too quick, and with a metal clattering it was on the floor. They had been trying to argue, she knows. It was usually a very endearing thing to hear during sexual escapades, but she did so hate it when they _both_ dissolved into a language she had yet to master. Illya was always- _always_ \- exempt from her irritation at the secrecy, but not Napoleon.

Illya is unaware- no, he's _forgotten_ that she is watching. She knows this because he grabs Solo's backside tightly, squeezes, and turns his head down to bite at his neck, with no finesse at all. It's clumsy. When Illya knows she's watching, when she's not an active participant but observing, he puts a bit of thought into how he must look. She's glad that he's not holding back, not preoccupied with how he looks to her. It means the gasp that accompanies the warmth in the air is from Solo getting the first of many very dark hickies.

“I just can't believe you were able to remain completely _at attention_ through the whole mission.” Gaby chides, finally moving from her place in the doorway and approaching the men who are too frantic to bring a tidal wave of calm over them. It does exactly that: it goes _over_ them and does not touch them. In fact, once she is close enough to slide her fingertips around Illya's right rib and drag them over his back, to his left rib- it's as if they've been specifically told to be even more aggressive. Her presence seems to encourage their energy. Like a slow predator, the British agent moves her hands to the edges of Illya's shirt and tugs until he begrudgingly lets her remove it. He's only upset because he has to move his hands from Solo's hips, which are keeping them both firmly grinding into one another.

“A moment or two won't kill you,” she mumbles, as a side note to Illya, who doesn't answer and just goes right back to what he was doing before: dragging teeth and tongue down Solo's collar bone. He's a piano, he's played so brilliantly, because when the dark-haired man meets her eyes he tries to swallow a sound and it only becomes more exciting to hear.

“Illya,” She remarks, and he grunts against Solo's skin. “Come on, get him out of his pants. _Help me out_ why don't you.”

Wordlessly as expected, Illya does as she asks, and helps Solo out of his slacks. Generously- as before, this has been an issue- he even lets Solo remove his socks, garters, and shoes. The moment Solo is upright, Gaby sees that Illya has not been as patient as she thought, and he's...entirely naked, now. Alright then! Makes it quicker, she supposes.

Her footsteps are slow and measured, and by the time the two are kissing again, she's behind Napoleon, her hands gently removing his shirt, his vest, and in a striking contrast to Illya she's stroking his skin as it's revealed. His shoulders, his biceps, the top of his spine- it all gets a loving touch. She isn't particularly a big fan of being so soft, but she knows that Solo likes the different sensations from all over. She thinks that he is so used to human touch, having too much of it stimulates him in a new way, one that reminds him he is wanted for more than his body and yet, that it is still a very good body.

She plants a few feather-light kisses to the back of his neck, and he turns his head just a bit toward her. She realizes Illya is re-focused back on making a mess of everything below a shirt collar level, and though Napoleon is having a little trouble, he can still speak.

“Gaby, are we going to get this – this show on the road?”

She needs to rectify this immediately. Her fingers tap at his jaw to turn his head back to Illya, and she slinks out from behind his back. Without more than a brush of her thumb against the side of the Russian's ear, she gets him to stop and look up. She's walking and a fluid motion of her arms, hands, fingers, and wrists all come together to flip the clasp of her day dress and send it tumbling to the ground in a puddle around her ankles.

She steps calmly out of it, as well as her underwear, and sits down in front the pillows propped against the headboard. She leans back, and by that time she has Illya _carrying_ Solo to bed. The sight makes her actually laugh, which breaks up the tension of the moment just a little. She sees Illya's cheeks pinken, but his face is still sternly focused in arousal. She sees Solo's smile grow cheeky, but knows that the fluttering of his lashes is far more because of lust.

“Before we get down to- _oof_ \- do you _mind_?”

“Ah, what _is_ it?” Illya is frowning so deeply Gaby worries it will stick. “Always with the _talking_ from you, Cowboy.”

“Yes, well, this time I actually have something reasonably important to-o- _ooooh_ -”

Illya is not interested in hearing whatever Solo has to say. Gaby can tell because there is lubricant slathered over two of his fingers, which are working deftly to stretch Napoleon. He can flap his lips and jaw all he likes, those fingers are miracles inside her and she can imagine that they are just as satisfying inside him.

She enjoys that it is easy to communicate in the bedroom between the three of them. At first it wasn't this natural, they had to speak about what positions they wanted or where things should be lifted and bent, but now it is so fluid she hardly remembered those days. Solo is on his back, between her thighs, looking up at her as Illya kneels on the bed. It's familiar but fun and all participants have sung the praises of such a situation both with biological reaction and verbal affirmation in the past.

Gaby strokes Napoleon's hair, his jawline, runs her fingertips over the arches of his cheeks and then pinches one teasingly when he seems to forget to breathe. Illya finds what he's looking for and Gaby glances up to see a smirk of triumph on the Russian agent's face.

“Go on. Say what you need to say, Solo.” She practically purrs out her words, and the softness of her touches begins to feel like ice cold pins and needles on his skin. She knows this because he seems euphorically engaged with her, tilting his head longingly into- and then away from- every movement she makes. It's loosely tied to Illya manipulating some hidden spot inside of him at roughly the same time.

“We- _ell,_ as I- as I was saying...I was going to ap-pologize to you, Gaby, for- not being able to stick around a-a- _and_ -” his back arches just a tiny bit, and she loosely curls her fingers in his hair. He anticipates a tug that never comes and shivers because of that. “Do more.”

“Do more? Hm.” she wants to say what she really feels: that it isn't his fault she's got a little more stamina and advantage, as a woman, than either of them could ever dream of. She doesn't say any of that and decides this will be an evening for games. “What do you mean?” She only looks up a bit to see if Illya is listening, and he is, but he's also entranced with the bodies before him. It is with some surprise that she realizes he is still paying any attention to her, as she's not a source of immediate gratification for him at the moment.

“I know that you're a good woman-”

“ _Strong_ woman. _”_ Illya is quick to cut in and correct, and he actually grins a little- maybe teasing- while refusing to break eye-contact with her now that she's looking at him again. She chuckles to remember something that feels far away but beautiful.

“Right, strong, good- uh- hm _mmm..._ ” he loses track again. Illya removes his fingers like a threat and it works. “Ah, no, no, I was saying, I know you're strong. So does The Red Peril over here. It's just that I can tell, sometimes, you wish we'd handle you a bit differently.”

“What? No, I- you're both, you know you're both _wonderful_ and-”

“Well, nobody is denying that, Gaby. I'm _wounded_.”

“This is not about you, Cowboy. Remember.”

“I am aware, thank you.”

Gaby is confused. She has no time to ask him for clarification. Apparently the only reason Illya has been talking is because he's been working, too, and he begins to push into Napoleon at an agonizingly slow pace. It's good to go slow, she knows, but Solo is squirming for how unbelievably sluggish Illya is giving it.

“Oh, what, Cowboy? Out of words?”

He is, for a moment. He just grunts and squirms and  _then_ Gaby digs her nails into his shoulders, reminding him that she is not a flower without thorns. It is timing that matters, and Solo opens up like a goddamn rose under the touch. She knows how much he likes his slow reveals, his dramatic twists and turns. He must live his life like a movie. It's charming and sad and so many nights she's wondered if he'll tell her why.

“I think he's out of words, yes, but I wouldn't be so quick to taunt.” She chides Illya a bit, seeing him grit his teeth and struggle to keep up his snails pace entrance. Once he's fully lodged inside Napoleon, she drags her nails slowly off his shoulders, and then up the sides of his head, behind his ears. They roll against his scalp lightly, but with every repeated pass, they get just a fraction more pressure applied.

This is normally the time she'd draw her eyes up to Illya, sweet-talk him into bending over to kiss her, but just as she opens her mouth Solo is...somehow coherent, and breaks up the routine.

“You're not made of glass,” he is panting. She is looking down at him like he's a curious new bird species, exotic and rare but potentially lethal. “And – I thought he could – use the reminder.” There is silence and a distinct lack of movement, and then it all falls into place. When the pieces click, Gaby tugs on his hair, and he lets out a loud and aching sound from deep in his chest.

That's the same sound that spurs Illya into moving his hips again, and really, that's when it all becomes a blur of pleasure and passion. She moves up onto her knees, and Napoleon's hands are on her hips, then her thighs, and help support her weight when she trembles under the impressive movements of his lips and tongue on her. Just when she thinks she's actually going to orgasm, his lips veer away and bite at her thighs- really, honestly bite, and it feels  _insanely_ good.

Illya is moving faster the more vocal she becomes, and it is a lovely train they have going. The better Solo does, the faster Illya moves and the more he feels pleasure from both acts his body is busy with. When Gaby cannot silence herself, she raises her head and finds Illya's lips on her own as fast as anything. One hand is holding Solo's hips up at an angle, the other is holding her jaw- and she notices his grip tighten significantly on it.

He's keeping her in the kiss very much the same way he has Solo, in the past, and she can't help but melt. The puppy is learning that she is equal, that when she says  _harder_ she means  _**harder** _ .

“Harder.” She hisses against his lips just then, and Illya does not look away from her as his body follows orders. Solo muffles his sounds against her and the vibrations topple her over the edge of an orgasm that makes her legs shake and her hips jerk upward, away from his mouth. He almost chases her taste in the haze of euphoria, but realizes she's genuinely in need of a break now, and presses his mouth against her thighs again, soothing all the angry red bite marks with kisses and louder groans.

Gaby's hands are all over Illya and Illya's body is aching and in moments its all over. Gaby doesn't really know if she reaches orgasm because Solo's involved a couple fingers somewhere along the line, or if it's Illya trying to say her name without having to leave her lips, because it is dazzlingly beautiful that he tries.

It is only in bed that Illya says “Solo” and Napoleon says “Illya”. It is only once, and it is only at the end, and it makes her grin so big no matter what. The grin lasts through until it hurts her cheeks, and Illya returns to bed with a damp bath towel for each of them. After cleaning up and being appropriately soft and calm for long enough, Gaby's got her fingers tangled up in Solo's, Illya has his arms wrapped around his waist, and they're all half-lidded and dazed. A little Napoleon sandwich.

“So, you mean to tell me that you tried to get Illya to help you out _mid-mission_ in a hospital, and you thought he'd just...what? Get on his knees and shrug?”

“It was worth a shot.”

“Several shots.”

“Yes, I heard that part. Why didn't you just tell us?”

“Are you kidding? Gaby, dear, darling Gaby, you need to look in the mirror when you make faces sometimes. The _unfiltered exhaustion_ is a terrifying expression on you.”

“Oh my God.”

“What was I going to say? Hey guys, I didn't get a turn, so before we go fix this mess I made, can I get a handy?”

“Yes. You could say exactly that. You never have problem being direct.”

“He has a point, you know.”

“Are we going to lay here and play the past-blame-game or are we going to practice some more Russian?”

“I like the past-blame-game. Illya, what about you?”

“I like-”

“He likes whatever you like! This isn't fair. No, you know what, I'm leaving-”

“Illya, how do you like your women?”

“Strong.”

 

Napoleon Solo found a prison cell with bars made of arms that he could not hope to break from.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you didn't get it, here is a brief count of the fic:
> 
> Chapter one, we have Gaby unsatisfied with how gently Illya has been treating her in bed. He's great, he just treats her like a china doll sometimes, and she wishes he wouldn't. Solo sees this and aims to rectify it with some simple poking. He forces Illya to watch as he pleases Gaby, and that revs him up enough to be more aggressive with her.
> 
> Chapter two, we have Solo neglected because he's an idiot and sacrificed part of a mission to carry out his dumb bedroom plan for Gabs.
> 
> Chapter three, it's all about fuckin' Solo because good job kiddo, Gaby now realizes you were trying to help her out.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Hope everyone enjoyed.


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